


IF YOU DON'T LAUGH, I KISS YOU.

by giveb



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bad Writing, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Fanservice, Gentle Kissing, Good Grief This Is Worse Than 115, Unfinished As Of Right Now, Virtual Reality, Wish Fulfillment, YOLO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giveb/pseuds/giveb
Summary: The video's youtube comments convinced me!
Relationships: Lex | MrTLexify/Reader





	IF YOU DON'T LAUGH, I KISS YOU.

When it comes to that sudden stinging shock of solid-white-blindness, it was pretty-close to the typical flashbang animation, or resembled the dogpile-rush of FBI flashlights or harsh-sunlight pricking and nipping from windows battered and broken in. Is this how werewolves must feel once the full-moon hectors them into the howler of the hour? Is this instead a spaceship’s beaming-ray, tugging and lifting your legs like a limousin cow or if you’re nothing more than a leaf, the stem? When it comes to any migraine afterimages or phosphene imprints, isn’t the only available color green, in the most-minute snippets throughout the grayscale-sward? However, these tints of the teleportation aren’t black & white checkerboards, strobes and stars, but bizarrely enough they’re all warmer color-washes. The current all-encompassing mirage, vision and illusion’s looking like magnified grains of sand, an eye-spy of all odds and ends, having all of the hallmarks of a familiar streamer’s opening sequence.  
There’s…  
Ultraviolet, Imperial, Amethyst, Byzantium, Heliotrope, Grape, Lavender-Lilac-Orchid, Mauve, Mountbatten Pink, Mulberry, Palatinate, Phlox, Purpureus, Thistle-Wisteria, Steel Pink, Tyrian Purple, Plum, Boysenberry, and Magenta.  
Crimson, Amaranth, Apricot, Auburn, Burgundy, Cardinal, Carmine, Carnelian, Cerise, Cinnabar, Claret, Coquelicot, Brick, Fire Engine, Garnet, Lava, Maroon, Mahogany, Oxblood, Raspberry, Rosewood, Rosso Corsa, Russet, Rust, Sanguine, Scarlet, and Vermillion.  
Tawny, Terra Cotta, Bistre, Bole, Bronze, Burnt Sienna, Chamoisee, Chocolate-Chestnut, Chitron, Cordovan, Ecru, Fallow, Fulvous, Khaki, Ochre, Rufous, Sepia, Sinopia, Taupe, Wenge, Zinnwaldite Brown, and Umber.  
Tangerine, Amber, Buff, Butterscotch, Fulvous, Gamboge, Golden Poppy, Jonquil, Marigold, Orange-Red, Persimmon, Safety Orange, Sunglow, Tangelo, Tawny, and Tea Rose.  
Alyride, Hansa, Monoazo, Aureolin, Buff, Citrine, Ecru, Flax, Gamboge, Mikado, Mindaro, Mustard, and Saffron.  


As this spectrum and shadow slinks away and you regain your sight, there’s a moment of temporary vertigo in adjusting to this scene-swap, so the convenient dropdown-spot of being against a wall is a godsent. The dark-curtains are thousand-thread count sheets, and the parky-poster doesn’t crinkle with your fingertip-touch. Your reflex-to-readjust takes an immediate shift to switch your center point of balance-buttress-bracing and find another barren bailey-bit to be the banister-handrail.  
Any dizziness disappears in two-ticks. and once that sensory-overload scatters, the finer and fainter discernment of hearing trickles in: the rustling and tampering of one christmas-tree’s tinsel, an atmosphere of silky-smooth cloud-nine chillwave, and accompanying scat-singing and entrancing-enthralling humming. When it comes to that christmas-bush’s whispering-swooshing-whooshing susurrus-sound, you look down, low and behold, it’s silvery-form is mysteriously recognizable. What was the last thing you did before this background change? You had gotten a notification about….  
When it comes to the tranquil musical middle, the lo-fi frisson beats hit-like-heartbeats, and this trumpeting-trilogy is tempting you to sync-up as the second-singer in this harmony. The man at the microphone stand’s the one, the only, drumroll-deserving Lex!  


He has kicked-back and dipped-back deeply into his seat, swiveling slowly with his hands tucked behind his head. He cracks open an eye, almost a reverse wink, and finally diserns-detects, descries-espies your presence. His reaction time’s just-a-sliver longer than the IAAF’s false-start rule on moving 0.1 seconds after the starting-shot, since the spring-into-action’s faster than La Ronde’s Le Monstre or Canada’s Wonderland’s Leviathan. There’s an entire sun’s worth of shine, wholehearted-warmth in his grin as you’re flagged down. There’s a great-deal of enthusiasm behind just a couple of words: “Hey (y/n), you made it!”  
Without a beat passing, his eyebrows quirk and furrow, and there’s sympathy in saying, “Are you alright? Do you need s’more light?” It takes a single-snap of his fingers for his battlestation to brighten up.  
When it comes to the darkness adaptation, it takes around twenty-minutes for its implementation, compared to shining-sensitivity, which reaches its peak in less than a quarter of that time. You give a thumbs up to answer the question as an affect-display, and shrug your shoulders as an emblem. “What-what? Lex, it’s fucking-fantastic to see you, but how did I get here? I don’t even live around here...”  
His hands shoot into the air with a smile. “I know, I know! The wonders of technology, amirite?”  
Before you can say anything more, Lex shelves your question aside. “Shhh, let’s not question it, but c’mon and sit down, you know what’s up.” He gestures and beacons you to come hither and closer, like he’s taking one tug-a-war rope towards himself.  


You take his advice and cast-away your thoughts and theories of how a thumbnail and link turned into the louver, ledges and braces of his door. Apart from that portal-pathway, everything before your very eyes looks exact and inch-perfect, on the money. It’s superlative and consummate, pristine and impeccable, immaculate and as sound as a bell compared to your own mental image and memory. As you walk along, there’s a celestial constellation light-show that dances and graces over your shoes, with any number of shooting-stars granting you good-luck.  
What else would you imagine this being? Which easter-eggs do you know inside-and-out? Are there any video-game titles that you’re itching to impart? Will this be the golden-grail moment where you’ll get to see the million-subscriber special? When it comes to what’ll actually happen, it’s hiding at the back of your head and tarrying on the tip-of-your-tongue. “Is this being published?”  
He, who only the radiance of a thousand-suns brought and bursted together in the sky can represent his splendor and beauty, chirps. “Only if you want it to be!”  
When it comes to the second chair pulled-up, it’s the real-deal replica! Lex the Legendary breaks the ice, sets the ball rolling, and show on the road by initiating his introduction, and each word spoken sends you down another step on the winding-down staircase of relaxation. If there had been a heavy-backpack of worries and troubles aching your shoulders, it’s been released. You slip on your headphones, hoping that you’ll also be endowed with an ultimate-updo, ruffled beehive or bird’s nest, and step-up to the plate for this performance and challenge.  


The trouble doesn’t come from the clips, but his quips and commentary, and even replying, speaking-normally seems like it would make you slip-up and stumble. Already, you’re confronted with an ensemble and symphony of infectious cackles and chortles, and it has already got you cracking a smile. His belly-laughs rack through him and have him stomping his feet, and like a peacock showing off a fabulous fan of feathers, a winsome lot of crinkled eye-lines and handsome bunny-lines appear. Would the best effort be from clamping your hands over your mouth to clench and clasp, lock away any likelihood of laughing out of nervousness?  
In-between clips, Lex gives you a coaxing-cheer. “Man, you haven’t made a peep!” He sends the softest of elbows to your side. “You’re a statue!”  
“Well, I’ve learned from the beast & best, which was you. The times that I’ve seen you staying stone-faced on purpose, it’s like you’re a mythical expert-actor, botox-model or monk who’s made the commitment to never smile again. I really do admire your absolute iron will.”  
When it comes to switching it up for plan-b to prevent the sprouting of a smile, should you just attempt to only-exclusively frown the entire-while? What’s something sad to think about? These home-videos sure-do help you, while you chew and mull over something sunny that has now past, like any previous pets that aren’t here now. Alongside this mouth-mindfulness and conscious-effort of being aware of your breathing, his make-mention of an unreachable itch adds another particular to perceive. Sometimes, your reflex-to-wince comes in clutch, whenever there’s an unfortunate-fall, nosedive, tumble or pitch against foursquare-fourpenny floors.  
There’s a change-in-pace, a musical interlude accompanying an army of frogs. Sure, you could ball-up a sock and shove it down your throat or duck-tape muzzle-up your laughing-gear, but would that be the easy-way-out? You take a leap of faith, and decide to join in on the jam-session. His voice is heavenly like an angel’s chorus, and like that quickly-quickly section earlier, you can’t just leave him hanging!  
From his sally-forth of, “Okay now… he hit that rest… Let’s go, Let’s go…” , you’re able to freestyle a handful of bars before the next rotation. The tangent could be something with frogs, bogs, clogs and a dague, damp and cold, but with how much beauty his vocal sac can hold.  
With this newfound-confidence, you’re able to contribute more to the trail-mix of trims and trailers. If you’ve got to grit your teeth, keep your jaw clenched, then what about wiggling your eyebrows, jazz-hands and hugs, kicking-swinging your legs, pinching yourself, or slapping your knees to kill-time?  
You get a front-row seat to see his hysterics and adorable snort at a tragedy on ice, hear his insights on how his pomeranians twitch in their sleep, acting out whatever roles in their dreams, take in his operatics about a lynx or maine-coon hybrid with coffee, and bear witness to his gulp and gasp when an indian-runner duck is pushed off his throne.  
The tickling tortuous-seven minutes of once-in-a-blue-moon moments finally concludes. Have the ending-credits and closing-cut black-screens ever been this exciting? You let the gallon of giggles out. “Bwahahah, your majesty, that was wonderful!”  


In the lulling-silence from the lulz, there’s a short-second’s hum as Mister Irresistible takes the moment to compose himself, before turning to you. After the steeling-up deep-breath and corresponding cool-off and low-down gesture, those hands land and rest on your knees.  
His sprightliness doesn’t stop, and gazes and goggles into your eyes for confirmation. “Alright, I’ll do it. I said that I would...”  
What’s your preference, what would you want?

As the gap between the two of you is closing slow and steady, there’s an unthinkable turn of events. Your own dominant hand, previously in your lap, or locked-away in a labyrinth or coil of crossed arms, or settled onto and stroking his palms-paws, is taken gently into his personal-space. The buss you’re given is a bat-outta-hell brisk butterfly-kiss on the knuckles or back of it. From Lex’s point-of-view, he must be seeing the world in stop-motion, because he’s buzzing-and-blinking at 24 or 48 frames-per-second. The world-record’s around 277-blinks-per-minute, and the lifetime amount is 4 to the 108th-power. You wouldn’t dare move a muscle, and your breath-hitches, since his lashes are as soft as goose down-feathers, and the tomato-red heat just radiates-off like that radioactive elephant’s foot. Lastly, there’s a set of strong-squeezes with his mitts and fists, before letting go entirely with a chuckle.

A KISS ON THE CHEEK.  
A KISS ON THE LIPS.

Lex leans-in with closed-eyes, homing in for an eskimo-kiss home-run, but instead plonks a palm on your shoulder, and plants a swift sea-lavender smooch on your cheek. It’s held for a fleeting-moment, in which you can feel him exhaling. It ends with him drawing-back and showing off a smugly-smirk, before coming back for a second saturated-smackeroo on your opposite side. All-in-all, it’s as if you’ve got two-tattoos printed-permanently at each X. 

A BUTTERFLY KISS.

You two instantaneously-immediately meet each-other in the middle to melt into the parrot’s-beak peck, and you’re the one to murmur and make a small sighing note-of-noise. The lion’s share of punch and pressure comes from yourself, as you cup his mug. However, like bullet-speed squash-ball pitching-machines hitting against rackets, you two bounce back-off of each-other after that concentrated crash and impact.

A BUTTERFLY KISS.

As you pull-away, you’re bright as a berry, cherry-red as you bury your flushed-face into your hands, and his heavy-hand doesn’t leave your shoulder, with his metal-knuckles being like an assault rifle slung over. When it comes to the concert’s closing remarks, the audience-onlookers’ view has it’s plug pulled with Lex blurting-out a hastened “Seeyouinthenextone”, before returning to the here-and-now with a sing-song ditty to the tune of your name. Equally, this rush has you feeling remotivated and exhilarated, like you’ve won lotto-jackpots, checked off everything on your bucket-list, and made it into hundreds of halls-of-fame!

You stretch and reach-up, pulling yourself taut, but there’s almost a glitch-in-reality and physics-breaking event, making you feel like a mime interlocked in an imaginary box. Your fingertips actually stick-and-freeze to a glacier-glass window and shades, before they even brush the actual studio-bookcase in front of you. Wait, going by touch alone, those might be your own shades and blinders, right at home. These sliding metal locks that you’re assessing and rammed-up against, they evoke and call-up many months of muscle-memory? Are you experiencing some sorta quantum shift, dimensional-hopping by being at two places at once? This doesn’t add up...  


“Hold your horses, this was all virtual reality?” He nods, solemn and sincerely, and that’s the crestfallen-catch for this too-good-to-be-true time.  
Even if there’s this mistake-in-media, if it looks like it has Lex’s slipper-flippers, quacks and sounds the same as Lex, then of course it’s him! You pitch praise, saying that this net-neck of the wood’s immersion and realism was an Inception or Matrix masterpiece.  
“Yeah, that’s the truth, (y/username). Crispy and I were going to test out the waters for VRChat instead of Omegle for a change.”  
Now that the puzzle-pieces have fallen into place… that notification from earlier? It was one friend-request and invite to teleport in. Even though you’ve got your avatar-anonymity, was this all a prank, with him perched in an earpiece right now?  
As if he could read your mind minutely, as if telepathy was his second superpower apart from telekinesis, he delivers his divination. “Nah, I just wanted to test-run it myself.”  
“Wow, what a jack of trades and multi-talented master, you modeled all of this?”  
“I’m glad you still enjoyed it, even though it’s so piss-poor.”  
“Nah and no-fucking-way Lex, this was wizard! What’dya mean?”  
Lex speaks as you notice the feature and factor for this free space. “It’s all…” There’s been a convincing curtain and screen for all six sides, of projected-photographs from the north-west-south-east angles. “Oh, it’s all straight-snapshots?”  
“This would be rad for like, real estate stuff! Have you heard of 8800 Blue Lick Road?"  
“If you did need anything modeled and sculpted your temple and sanctum, I could do it.”  
“I was wondering if you can teach me it, since I’ve had some specific problems that Google can’t answer.”  
There was this that I wanted to commission…  
Was it something to go with the green-screen, replacing his white-and-gold background? Was he singlehandedly attempting to remodel a previous map, craft something of his own?  
“Well, What’s next? You’ll be coding in Malbolge, Whitespace, Brainfuck, or that Cow Programming Language?”  
If the door’s the loading, touch and cutscene-trigger zone, what would it be like if you clip out of bounds? Actually, you take that back, not wanting to learn the hard way if this construct’s capable of piloting pain, or soft-locking you.  
You spend a while talking about anything your heart desires. You’ve got an opinion on something? You share it, even if it’s on a remote ranking of old, a setlist-song previously played or series that you’ve wanted to hawk about, a past time that you’ve accidentally joined a game on stream, or how his work had brightened your bya.  
“Well, it’s time. You gotta head back out there man! I believe in you. I know you make it all brighter.”  
“Alright, go get ‘em, tiger! I’ll see you in the next one!”  
The last-thing you see before the door closes is a second kiss blown to you, to cherish and treasure.


End file.
